


Progress

by burninglikeabridge



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:53:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninglikeabridge/pseuds/burninglikeabridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is getting better. It's not easy, and it's not altogether pleasant at times, but Steve isn't giving up on him.<br/>Til the end of the line, after all.<br/>-<br/>Snapshots of Bucky's progress dealing with the aftermath of being the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progress

~  
Bucky was getting better.  
After what felt like many deaths, some of which were their own, Steve and Bucky picked up, not quite where they left off, but maybe better, in modern New York, in an apartment.  
Steve thought the same city would be a good thing. And then, he worried if it would be bad.  
He thought that maybe the trauma of the memory was more damaging than it was helpful, but he didn't know. Bucky didn't like talking about it, really, and Steve didn't like asking.  
For a lot of time, they were quiet, passing only necessary words between each other.  
But, Bucky kept progressing.  
It wasn't just a fact that Steve liked to keep in mind, and it wasn't just an idea to make him feel better. It was actually true.  
Some times, more than others.  
Some times, they would sit and watch movies, Bucky's head on his lap, his fingers in Bucky's hair. Sometimes Bucky even commented on the movie. Sometimes they just talked.  
Sometimes Steve made breakfast and Bucky wandered out of bed, hair messy, accidentally wearing Steve's shirt instead of his own, and it felt almost nostalgic, even though they'd never done that kind of thing before.  
Sometimes Steve would take Bucky for walks, and they'd go by the old places they used to go, and Bucky would nod in recognition. Sometimes he'd smile as Steve recounted old memories.  
Steve talked about the time they went to the movies, and he accidentally mentioned how much he'd wanted to kiss Bucky then.  
Bucky had looked like maybe he'd kiss Steve, now, years and years later. Steve had waited. He'd held his breath, a little, maybe. But Bucky didn't, and they'd walked on. Little steps mattered, and Steve counted all of them, even the tiniest shuffle of feet.  
Other times Bucky didn't show emotion at all. Those times almost unsettled Steve, because he himself felt nearly overwhelmed. But he kept in mind that, this Bucky was James Barnes, of the 107th, and of the Howling Commandos, and he was the Winter Soldier, and all at once he was the same kid who offered to drive Steve home the day of his mom's funeral and who cried at his bedside every time he was sick. He kept in mind that now, this Bucky was a lot more complicated, and it would take some time to get to know him in the same way again.  
Sometimes they would be at SHIELD's headquarters together, and Bucky would absentmindedly hold Steve's hand, and he didn't seem to care who noticed.  
Other times, those were harder.  
Bucky would have nightmares, and Steve would find him in the bathroom, and he would refuse to come out for hours. Steve would sit on the other side of the door, sometimes all night. He was patient, anyways; some things are fragile.  
Bucky would forget what he was doing while doing it, sometimes just simple tasks. He would forget where dishes go. He would forget that Steve was home. He would forget what day it was.  
Still, Steve could tell, he was only getting better and better. With time, Steve thought maybe he could even be the same old Bucky. Though, Steve wasn't sure he could ever be the way he was.  
It didn't matter.  
Things were better. Some times, more than others. 

~

"Rise and shine," Steve tells him, pulling the curtains on the window.  
In the bed, Bucky doesn't stir.  
His back is to Steve, and he's shirtless. Bucky shifts, and so do the blankets over his shoulder, and Steve pauses. The blanket slips down, and Steve can see the familiar expanse of Bucky's back, and the scarring where his shoulder's skin meets with metal. The sunlight pouring through the window slants across his skin, catching the metal, glinting. The harsh difference of the two seems obvious, seems almost cruel. It looks as if it shouldn't belong, but Steve knows it does. He's seen it, shoulder to fingertips, and it's not the same, but it's not a monster. It's a piece of Bucky, crudely attatched and against his will, but it is a puzzle piece of their lost history, and Steve finds it more than a little beautiful. To see Bucky stand, unashamed, when he thinks Steve isn't looking, the difference in the way he carries himself is clear. He's had years of discipline, but also, years of pain. He stands tall, but not too tall, and he stands as if he is painfully aware of every inch of metal.  
Steve finds it terribly sad, but he knows Bucky doesn't want his pity. He doesn't pity him. But still, that's different than other times.  
It's different than when Bucky's leaning on the arm, hovering over Steve, saying something in Russian that Steve can't understand but he gets the idea of by the way Bucky's breathing. It's different than when Steve feels metal graze over his skin, with a touch so light he has to arch into it, cold and unforgiving and wonderful. It's definately different than the first time Bucky let Steve touch it, or the first time Steve had the nerve to ask to be touched with it.  
Yeah, so maybe Steve also finds it incredibly hot.  
On the bed, in front of him, Bucky shifts again, and Steve's drawn back to the present, staring at Bucky's arm.  
Steve takes a sharp breath.  
He knows it must've hurt. He knows it's not ideal. He knows Bucky hates it.  
But Steve doesn't.  
It's a part of Bucky, and it might not be the original part and it might not be the best one, but it's what he's got.  
It hinders him, more often than not, and Bucky's scared it causes more damage that it's worth.  
But Bucky is more than that, and Steve knows it.  
A metal arm is far from a dealbreaker.  
It's still Bucky. Shit, that's all he's ever had to be, is just Bucky. In every way, in every time. That's always been the key to Steve's heart.  
He's been pining after Bucky since they were kids.  
Steve calls his name again, feeling sentimental and a little wobbly as he leans over and nudges Bucky.  
The reaction isn't what he's expecting.  
Bucky moves fast, swift, and he barely makes a sound as he whips around and his metal fingers close over Steve's wrist, grasping his arm and twisting it.  
Bucky's eyes are wild, but he doesn't seem to see.  
Steve is taken by surprise, and he's pulled into the sharp motion, pain lighting up his elbow and shoulder.  
"Buck!" He calls out, his face hitting the mattress, being pushed downward by two hands, one on his wrist and one on his shoulder. His knees buckle and his own weight collapses against himself, and he glances up to see realization slowly spreading across Bucky's face. He's sitting up on one knee, braced to apply enough force to snap Steve's arm.  
He lets go.  
"I'm...." Bucky starts.  
Steve sits up, pulling back.  
He moves his arm.  
Ow- yeah, that trick never quite got old. He moves again. It's fine, he tells himself. But it's not fine.  
Bucky's eyes are wide and he's looking down at his hands, and Steve recognizes the slight tremor of his fingers, the shift in his breathing.  
Bucky feels betrayed by his own body, his own instilled instincts. He feels betrayed by his past.  
It's not fine.  
Steve reaches for him, starts to tell him that it's no big deal, but Bucky pulls back.  
"Don't... Don't. I don't..." Bucky shakes his head, and his hair falls into his face.  
Steve hears what he's saying.  
I don't want to hurt you.  
He knows Bucky doesn't want to hurt him. A lot of time has passed since he tried to. A lot of things have changed.  
He also knows that it's Bucky's bred instinct to attack, to defend, to maim. He knows Bucky can't help gripping too tight sometimes, or moving too fast, or scaring him. He wants Bucky to understand that he understands.  
Instead, Bucky's shaking his head and standing, walking to the bathroom.  
Steve chokes back something between a laugh and a sob.  
Bucky is wearing Steve's pants. 

 

~  
"I want to take you out." Steve says again, adamant.  
Bucky frowns.  
"I'm not your girlfriend." He tells Steve, scowling into his cup of water.  
He sits at the kitchen table, and Steve stands, leaning. Begging, pleading, persuading.  
"You're right." Steve sighs. "You're my boyfriend, I guess."  
Bucky glares up at him, but doesn't protest. Steve thinks he sees the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  
"You never were smooth," Bucky reminds him, and Steve smiles warmly.  
Bucky is remembering. Or maybe he's remembering that Steve remembers.  
It's slow, and Steve can tell that it hurts sometimes, but he's trying and trying. And that's what matters.  
The tiny fragments of memory are worth the struggle. They're piecing together their past, scrap by scrap, and building their future, brick by brick.  
"So, what do you say, Buck? Let me take you out."  
Steve expects a typical retort, something like , 'Is that a date, Rogers?' but Bucky is quiet and then so is Steve.  
Bucky is frowning again, looking down at his hands on the table.  
A flesh and blood hand, shaking the slightest bit like it always does, on top of a metal one, covered in a cut off black glove. Instead of shoving the left hand into his pocket or moving it under the table, Bucky fidgets with a loose string on the glove. Instead of trying to hide the thing he hates most, Bucky is deliberately putting it right in his line of sight. He's dealing.  
Steve smiles again.  
Baby steps. 

~  
"How does breakfast sound?" Steve calls to Bucky, where he lays on the couch.  
He slept there last night, against Steve's protests.  
They hadn't fought, they hadn't had any problem at all. But when Steve mentioned going to sleep, Bucky said he'd rather sit on the couch for a while longer. Alone.  
Bucky rolls over, not making a sound, pulling the blanket over his face.  
Steve smiles, opening the fridge.  
Easy mornings are nice. Bucky is okay, and things are good, and things feel normal. Domestic. It's easy to forget who they are , without forgetting important things. It's easy to go through these motions.  
Bucky sits up, sharply, pulling the blanket with him in what seems like an absentminded way. His metal fingers grasp at the fabric like a lifeline.  
"Steve?" His voice is broken, and it cracks when he says Steve's name, a cold question hanging in the air. Steve nearly drops the juice when he turns and catches Bucky staring over at him.  
His blue eyes are wide, and he looks devoid of memory, and full of fear.  
He says Steve's name again, this time, softer, hesitant. He lets go of the blanket, and the tremor in his right hand is even more prominent. The blanket slips down the smooth metal of his left arm, and falls to the ground beside the couch.  
Steve feels frozen in this awful moment, unable to set the juice down, unable to go to Bucky, unable to offer any small comfort.  
Bucky is hurting, Bucky is disoriented, and Steve is unable to help.  
"I..." He starts, and then shakes his head. He rubs his eyes. He waits a second. He starts the sentence again, with a sigh, and Steve can see the frustration that's starting to build.  
"Your name is James." Steve says, without thinking, and the words echo harshly around the living room. He looks at Bucky, who looks as if something awful has just been said.  
"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes." Steve goes on anyways. This needs to be said, time and time again. It feels like an almost childish routine, but Steve can see that it helps. These simple facts help spark memory. These simple facts bring hope. These simple facts are all that they have at times like this.  
"And you're my best friend." Steve sets the juice carton on the table and walks towards the couch, slow. Bucky has not moved, he hasn't spoken.  
"You like it when I call you Bucky, instead." Steve places a hand on the edge of the couch, afraid of what will happen if he touches Bucky.  
"What else?" Bucky asks, too quiet to hear.  
"What?"  
"What else?" Bucky repeats, louder. He means to say, please, keep going. Steve knows that. He knows Bucky swallows the words he really means. But he hears them anyways.  
"You were a soldier. Maybe you still are. You were something else, once." Steve tells him. Bucky nods along to the words, and he looks puzzled, as if they're a familiar concept, but he can't exactly place them.  
"What was I?"  
"I..." Steve hesitates. He isn't sure how to answer. He isn't sure if there is an answer.  
"You were my hero." He says, because it's true, and because he says it without thinking of how Bucky's going to react, what he's going to think.  
Bucky lets his hands fall to his sides and he blinks. He's not really looking at Steve; he's not looking anywhere. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He rubs his eyes, he takes a breath.  
Steve waits. He watches, and he waits. Patience is more than a virtue, it's a necessity.  
Bucky takes a step forward, and then back. He shifts on his feet, nervous, uncertain. His eyes are brighter now, and he seems to be present in his own head.  
Steve offers a tiny smile, but Bucky doesn't seem to recognize or return it.  
"Breakfast is good." Bucky says, tugging on his gray T shirt. His voice is a little shaky, and Steve's taken aback by the statement but he nods.  
"Same as yesterday?" Steve knows it's pressing Bucky's memory. Maybe too far. He realizes he shouldn't have said it. He shouldn't have disrupted that bit of progress they'd just gained. He shouldn't have pushed.  
But Bucky just squints for a moment and then slowly nods, running his fingers through his hair.  
"Yeah." He adds, and when he looks down, a little sheepish, it reminds Steve so much of the way he used to be in Brooklyn all that time ago that his throat closes up and he has to turn away.  
Sometimes, remembering is hard for both of them. 

~  
Mornings are hard.  
Sleep can disorient, nightmares can disrupt.  
The nights are full of reminders and glasses of water and sometimes even movies to calm them both.  
The nights are; 'Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.' And 'You won't hurt me, I trust you.'  
The nights are brutal.  
The later times are better. The evenings, the afternoons.  
The laters.  
Later, when Bucky forgets where he put his jacket, and wears Steve's instead, and at least five people notice but don't mention it except for sly comments and smiles.  
Later, when Bucky says he loves Steve, while he's half asleep, and he probably doesn't know what he's saying but Steve stutters and blushes anyways.  
Later, when Bucky takes him by the hand while they watch TV, and he doesn't say a word, but he holds on tight.  
Later, when Steve asks what Bucky wants to drink, and Bucky cracks a joke instead, and Steve laughs so hard he chokes, and then they laugh some more, and it doesn't feel like Brooklyn but Steve thinks it's sort of better.  
Later, when Bucky can faintly remember things about Steve before the fall, and these little facts are not sad to hear but hearing it feels good, for once.  
Later, when Bucky is washing the dishes, and Steve throws one arm over his waist, and the other hand deliberately reaches for the left arm, Steve can tell that something is different. Bucky leans into his touch, leans into the kiss that he presses against the back of Bucky's neck. He sighs.  
He is content. 

~  
They're in the middle of a training session.  
They're only weekly now, especially with Bucky's full time recovery underway, but SHIELD still expects everyone to be ready, always, so Steve agreed to weekly training. It's running, fighting, shooting. It's whatever needs to be practiced or learned.  
Bucky struggles.  
Not with running, or fighting, or shooting. He can execute any of the following with perfect efficiency. It's the whole idea of combat that shakes him.  
He thinks of fighting as a one way street. He fights to win, to kill. It's the way he's been made. Or rather, unmade.  
Everyone knows this.  
They don't go into hand to hand training practice with the Winter Soldier. They don't challenge him to a race.  
They leave him alone.  
They give him wary looks when he walks by. They fear him.  
The Winter Soldier is used to being feared.  
But Bucky, he doesn't want to hurt people. He doesn't want to kill them. That's not who he is.  
The reason he's struggling is because he is both of these men, but also, neither of them.  
He sticks to running, mostly.  
The track surrounding the building isn't long, and four laps counts as a mile, but Bucky doesn't count. He just runs and runs.  
Today, though, Bucky has specifically been asked to train hand to hand.  
He's terrified.  
He's afraid he'll lose. He's even more afraid he'll win.  
He sizes up his opponent, calculating. He doesn't want to consider end-all scenarios, but that's what he's built to think.  
He doesn't want to hurt this person.  
It's Steve.  
Of course it is; who else would be equipped?  
Bucky knows that, and he knew it well in advanced. But now, here, feet away, with Steve frowning and shaking his hands, Bucky isn't sure he can do it.  
He isn't sure he knows when to stop.  
He can remember the time they fought, for real. His knuckles burn at the memory. His shoulder aches at the mention.  
He doesn't want to think of that now.  
This is different.  
He knows, now.  
He just isn't sure he can stop.  
Steve moves forward, and Bucky fights all instinct to grab him.  
Steve moves again.  
"Come on, Buck. It's for fun. I won't hurt you. Trust me. Come on, Buck." Steve is chanting over and over  
Bucky knows he's right.  
His eyes are burning. The light feels too bright, and his head spins.  
He tries to keep Steve in focus. He tries to swing, fails. Steve doesn't retaliate. Steve waits.  
Bucky remembers the last time they fought with perfect clarity, it seems:  
Your name is James Buchanan Barnes and you're my friend.  
I'm not going to fight you.  
Bucky sways on his feet. He feels sick.  
Steve keeps waiting, Bucky keeps swaying.  
"I don't want to do this." He says, dropping his hands.  
"Buck-"  
"I said no." He shakes his head.  
Steve nods, once, turns to someone near him and says something Bucky can't hear.  
Then, Steve says something to Bucky, but his hears are ringing and he doesn't really hear it.  
Training is over for the day.  
Bucky is done.  
"I'm proud of you," Steve tells him, later.  
Bucky doesn't understand. Hasn't he failed the task?  
"Why?"  
"You made that choice for yourself." Steve says. "That's what really matters, Buck. Nothing else but that."  
"So... This combat stuff, this is about my... Choices?"  
"Yes." Steve hesitates on the word.  
"Is it?"  
"It's about you. Getting better."  
Bucky nods, considering this.  
"Then today... Was good." He tells Steve. Steve smiles. Today, Bucky learned to say no. He learned where to stop. He learned his own limits.  
"Today was good." 

~  
"You didn't always like me." Steve tells him, his fingers carding through Bucky's long hair.  
Bucky's head rests in his lap, and they lay in the grass in the park up the street. Bucky wears a green hoodie, pulled down over the fingers of his left hand, which he shoves in his pocket anyways. It's warm outside, and Bucky fidgets in the clothing, but silently refuses to openly bear his arm. Steve wears a jacket, too, because he wants to show Bucky that he's willing to go through the same things. He wants to show Bucky that he's willing to understand. He doesn't know if a hoodie conveys that fully, but it's a start.  
"You're lying." Bucky says, reaching up with his right hand to touch Steve's chin. "I always liked you." He says it like he means it, like he knows it, like every word is attatched to a memory. It's nice, to hear him speak so much and so surely.  
"Not true." Steve laughs, catching Bucky's fingers with his own, sliding his hand to Bucky's wrist. He lets his fingers close around Bucky's arm, and Bucky draws a sharp breath, his eyes burning into Steve's.  
He sits up, and Steve's fingers catch in his hair, and he leaves them there, because Bucky is so close he's practically on top of Steve, and it just makes sense. Bucky throws one leg over Steve, pressing closer, and now- Steve has a lap full of super soldier, and he's finding it hard to breathe.  
"Always liked you." Bucky repeats.  
He's inches from Steve, and all Steve can do is stare.  
This is the same face he's seem smiling at him a million times. These are the same eyes that have always looked at him and seen the good in him that no one could.  
Bucky lets Steve grip his wrist, and with his left hand, he loops a finger through Steve's belt loop, slowly, deliberately. Steve breaks; he's the one to close the distance.  
This is the same mouth, that's kissing him again, hard, the mouth that he's kissed a thousand times, and everytime it still leaves him breathless.  
Bucky doesn't move much- he just kisses Steve and kisses him, he pushes his right hand to Steve's face, he grips tighter.  
Steve falls into the feeling, leaning forward against Bucky, letting him take what he wants. Maybe, Steve is what he needs.  
"Take off your jacket." Bucky growls against his neck, and Steve almost chokes, and his fingers shake at the zipper and he almost rips the sleeve of his jacket pulling it off.  
Bucky nearly jumps him, pressing him back against the grass, trailing kisses down his neck, a metal hand sliding down his stomach.  
"Take..." Steve gasps. He knows it's a lot to ask.  
He glances around.  
The park is empty.  
They sit surrounded by a few trees, casting shade and cover over them.  
Still, he knows it's a lot to ask of Bucky, here and now. Bucky lets his lips linger on Steve's skin.  
A lot to ask, but he has to ask it anyways.  
"Take off yours." Steve says, and it comes out as a gasp, and Bucky stops. He pulls back, sitting up.  
Steve starts to apologize, but waits.  
Bucky isn't shutting down, or pulling away. His face is calm.  
He reaches for the hem of his sweatshirt, and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Bucky smirks.  
Steve is dizzy.  
Bucky wears Steve's tattered white shirt, and the smooth metal of his arm catches the sunlight. He doesn't look ashamed. He doesn't look broken.  
He is whole, every inch and every piece is Bucky.  
Steve wants to find it progressive, he wants to scribble it down in a notebook somewhere. Today is the day Bucky was okay.  
But also, Steve really just finds it ridiculously hot. And now it's hard to think. It's too hard to do anything but stare.  
Bucky's eyes are hungry, his hair falls in his face.  
It's utterly indecent, Steve thinks. It's the kind of photograph you'd hide underneath your mattress. It's the kind of image you'd stutter while trying to explain. Bucky tosses the hoodie aside and swoops down to kiss Steve again, planting both hands on the ground beside him, and both knees on either side of Steve's hips.  
"Fuck," Steve says, dumbly. Bucky kisses him again, pressing that metal hand against Steve's arm.  
Steve's hand slips up the back of Bucky's (really, it's Steve's) shirt, and Bucky arches into the touch, making a sound that would normally make Steve blush.  
"Fuck." He repeats.  
"That's the plan." Bucky mumbles into his ear, shifting his other hand to Steve's leg, pressing the metal one against his chest. Now it's Steve's turn to arch against the touch, to moan.  
He doesn't intend to speak, but he finds words falling out of his mouth as Bucky's hand slips up his shirt, metal against skin.  
"That's- it's- wow, holy- Bucky-" Steve babbles on. He moves to touch Bucky, but Bucky's right hand clasps around his wrist. He pins Steve's hand above his head.  
"Let me," Bucky says smoothly, and Steve is positive he's about to pass out because Bucky moves to place a kiss against his collarbone, and his hand is still pinning Steve down. Steve is wondering when Bucky became so pushy, but he doesn't have a lot of time to wonder because Bucky is pushing his shirt up, and the sight of that fills up Steve's whole head.  
Steve lifts his head to catch Bucky's mouth, and the kiss is off center, but it's sweet.  
Bucky pulls back sharply.  
"Did you hear that?" He asks, voice hollow. He sits up, pulling his hands away and looking around.  
"What?" Steve sits up on his elbows, looking. He can't see anything but grass and trees. "I don't see anything, Buck." Steve reaches for him, but Bucky pins his hand to the grass again.  
Steve doesn't want to admit how much he likes it.  
Bucky's still looking around, eyes narrowed, body tense. He waits.  
Steve recognizes that; the rigid lines of his body, the stance. He's readying himself, for what, Steve isn't sure.  
"Hey. It's okay-" He soothes, but Bucky hushes him.  
"We...." Bucky turns to Steve, and falls silent. He looks him over for what feels like a long time before he sighs. "We should go." He says, and it takes Steve a minute to nod, because he's so caught up in staring at Bucky.  
Bucky slips his hoodie back on, and stands, each motion fluid and efficient.  
Steve stumbles to his feet, grabbing his jacket as an afterthought, his legs wobbly.  
The hazy, hurried moment in the grass feels like ages ago, and Bucky looks different now; sharper, focused. His eyes are everywhere at once and his left hand is curled into a fist at his side.  
"Hey." Steve places his hand on Bucky's left shoulder. Bucky stiffens. "I'm here." He says, and Bucky softens, and seems to lean into his touch.  
"Yeah," Bucky says, nodding. He lets his metal fingers fall from the fist, and he sighs. He leans back against Steve. "That's... it's good." He tells Steve. He sounds far away, but Steve doesn't question it. He lets Bucky linger here against him for a few minutes, just breathing in the afternoon. He lets them both have the time.  
"I'll cook." Bucky says.  
"You will?"  
"Yes." Bucky nods, slowly, uncertain. "Am I good at that sort of thing?" He asks. Steve nods.  
"You're good at all sorts of things." He adds, nodding again. Bucky doesn't smile, but his eyes seem to light up, and he reaches for Steve's hand as they start to walk.  
Steve is surprised but comforted by the feel of metal against his hand. This means more than just a casual touch.  
Bucky usually holds his hand with his right hand, under all circumstances.  
He's also usually not keen on public displays of affection, and a minute ago he seemed to be all for the idea of sex in a park.  
But, the old Bucky would have liked that sort of thrill. He would have liked the indecency.  
Today is a day of special exceptions, Steve thinks.  
Today is a day of progress. 

 

~  
Progress comes and goes.  
Steve wishes it isn't like that, but sometimes it is. 

~  
"I can't do this."  
It's a phrase Steve is used to hearing from Bucky.  
The scene, however, in the middle of the night, is not something he's used to.  
It's not the first time something similar has happened, and Steve tries to be at peace with the fact that it won't be the last.  
He heard sounds coming from the hall, and he stumbled out of bed to find Bucky on his knees in front of the bathroom sink, in front of a broken mirror.  
"Buck?"  
Bucky is shirtless, wearing Steve's pants- a habit, maybe he finds comfort in it? There's blood on his hand, but Steve can't see any cut. He looks disoriented, scared, like a lost animal.  
"I can't do this." Bucky repeats, his hair in his face, his eyes wide but seemingly unseeing. He seems to be looking at the fragments of his own image in the mirror, and his eyes fill with hatred, and he closes them.  
Steve's throat closes up, and he wants to reach out but he can't. He can't close this kind of distance.  
Bucky is remembering, piece by piece, even the bad bits. Especially the bad bits. He is remembering who he was, who he was made to be and who he will be. Steve has no comfort to offer for the things he might see in his own mind.  
"I can't." Bucky repeats, and he slumps down, sitting back on his heels, looking away from his broken reflection.  
He shakes his head, and a choked sound falls from his mouth.  
"Buck." Steve says again, voice shaky and scratchy, and he falls to his knees in the hall at the sight.  
The sight of Bucky, broken, crumpled, bleeding. The sight of Bucky hurting. The sight of someone so damaged he isn't sure if there's a cure, a fix.  
Bucky chokes out a sob.  
"Steve?" He looks up, and he seems to be seeing Steve for the first time, his eyes clear, flooding with tears. His hand shakes, the metal one still against his thigh.  
Steve rushes forward all at once, ignoring the bits of glass from the mirror, pulling Bucky hard into his arms.  
"I can't lose you." Steve murmurs against his hair. The 'again' is unspoken, but Bucky feels it there, because he clutches Steve tighter, with just his right arm.  
Steve blindly gropes for his left hand, linking their fingers together even as Bucky goes limp.  
"Don't." Steve says, running a hand through Bucky's hair. "I'm not afraid of you."  
"I killed so many of them." Bucky sobs. He buries his face in Steve's shoulder.  
He cries.  
Steve lets him.  
He doesn't speak, he doesn't try to move. He runs his fingers across Bucky's shoulders and he just holds on.  
They just hold on. 

~  
"I don't want to do that anymore." Bucky says, the next afternoon.  
They lay on the floor by the window, Bucky's head in Steve's lap, because it's their unspoken routine.  
Bucky's left fingers trace patterns into Steve's thigh, and he smiles softly.  
He looks perfect, the sun from the window casting light over his features. He looks calm, eyes bright, and he looks happy.  
Steve feels a painful surge of affection for him, and he leans down to kiss him, slow. He almost forgets that Bucky's just spoken.  
"What?" Steve asks, lazy, letting his fingers trail over Bucky's chest.  
"Last night." Bucky says, and he tenses up, shifting out of Steve's reach, his voice low. "I don't want to do that to you anymore."  
He lets his fingers trail over the cut on Steve's knee from where he kneeled in glass the night before.  
"Buck-" Steve grabs his hand, and Bucky turns to face him again, and Steve's breath catches because, fuck, Bucky is everything.  
"I'd crawl through glass a thousand times for you." He tilts Bucky's chin with his fingers, his other hand curling around Bucky's.  
Bucky doesn't wear a glove on his metal hand today, so Steve is met by nothing but smoothness. It used to be strange. Now, it's nothing- well, it's everything, because it's a piece of Bucky. It's different. It's strange.  
But it's nice.  
Steve wouldn't want to be holding anyone else's hand.  
"Sap." Bucky wrinkles his nose, but grins anyways.  
"Jerk." Steve inches closer, and their noses touch.  
"Punk." Bucky mumbles, closing the distance.  
He smiles against Steve's lips, pulling his weight on top of Steve to straddle him and push him back.  
"Loser," Steve replies, breathless, and Bucky sits up with one hand on Steve's chest, and pulls his shirt over his head.  
Steve feels like the air has been knocked from his lungs.  
He sees it all the time. He never tires of the sight, though, and seeing Bucky in the light is rare sometimes.  
The arm connects in a crisscross of scars, smooth metal colliding with skin in a haphazard arrangement.  
But that's not what Steve can't stop staring at.  
He can't stop looking everywhere.  
Bucky is hot.  
He's leaning down to kiss Steve, but he's brushing his lips from Steve's mouth down to his chest, and it's the hottest thing he's ever seen.  
"Wow." Steve says.  
"Sap." Bucky laughs, rolling to the side of Steve, laying on his back.  
They're silent for a moment, and Bucky laces his fingers through Steve's, and Steve smiles at the feeling of Bucky actively choosing to recognize his arm as a good part of him.  
"Just lay with me." Bucky says, and it's stupid, really, that he thinks he has to say it at all. Where else would Steve go, really? There's nowhere he'd rather be. 

 

~  
They're getting ready to go to the movies.  
Steve can't find his coat anywhere, and Bucky stands by the door, waiting.  
Steve walks to the bedroom, and then back, and then, on a second thought, to the bedroom again. He finds his jacket next to the bed on the floor, where he left it the night before.  
He sighs, picking it up and walking to meet Bucky.  
Bucky stands, his coat at his feet, his eyes wide, frowning. He seems to be thinking, he seems to be lost.  
Steve recognizes the look. He's seen it a hundred times now. Bucky's forgotten.  
Steve sighs, shaky. He steps closer.  
"Your name-" He starts.  
Bucky interrupts.  
"Is James Buchanan Barnes." He laces his fingers through Steve's, and smiles fondly. The faraway look in his eyes is gone. He looks up at Steve, and his smile turns to a smirk, and Steve is dumbstruck by how much he loves Bucky.  
"And I'm your boyfriend."


End file.
